“Promiscuous behavior consistent with untreated bipolar disorder.”
Translation: The First Daughter wasn’t ruined, she was just unwell.
Now, they just need me smiling in a dress to prove the meds are working.
I blink at her. “Wait, wait...” I press. “Am I allowed to even attend anything? Could I at least skip one event? Something small?”
My mom tilts her head and gives me a sweet look, the kind that says,You silly child. “Your safety is our priority, you know,” she says, the corners of her eyes crinkling just right. “But really, Mara, please. This isn’t just aboutyou. This is about the country.”
It took one press conference and a fake diagnosis to make my gang bang a mental health episode.
Now, I’m their recovery narrative. The broken girl they glued back together with pearls and pills.
I inhale slowly, trying not to boil over. I want to spit something back. Like how it’s really about photo ops and howshelooks with a compliant daughter by her side. Instead, I bite my tongue. If I push any harder, she’ll crack a smile or something, and god forbid there’s cracks in her perfect façade.
“Of course, Mother,” I say, trying not to let the sarcasm bleed through. “I wouldn’t want to put national security at risk by insisting on, I don’t know, actually being present in class.”
I pause before adding, “Do I get a sash that says ‘mentally stable now,’ or is that too on the nose?”
She smiles again. Nothing hangs in the air, just the sound of my own heart thumping angrily. We don’t speak for a moment. She’s got my schedule, my upcoming life, all pinned down. All decided on that glowing screen between us. I feel trapped under her flawless gaze, and it takes every ounce of me not to fling that iPad across the room.
Later that afternoon, I locked myself in my bedroom with my laptop, trying to do some assignments that I know I’m missing.
But the screen blinks with error after error. The school portal is overloaded, and when I click on the discussion board, it boots me back out. Every link gives me a403: Forbidden.
I call IT support, and Jake from IT picks up on the first ring (I’m too desperate not to be impressed).
But after a minute of silence, he gulps. “Ma’am, I... uh... do you still have access? Because your login’s been... disabled?”
“What?”
“Yes. It seems you are no longer a student at Ashen Grove. Now, have a good day.”
Click.
I sit in silence.
Chase must’ve done something. Or my father.
The door opens without warning, and Chase walks in. “Hey! Hiding from the world in here?”
His tone pisses me off, causing me to slam my laptop shut so fast it clicks hard against itself.
He raises a brow. “Something wrong?”
“Yeah,” I snap, standing. “You un-enrolled me.”
His expression doesn’t flicker. “Oh, that.”
“That?” I step toward him. “That was my life, Chase. My classes, my work.Myfuture. You just deleted it.”
He sighs, like I’m being dramatic. “You weren’t attending anyway. And your little campus reputation didn’t exactly scream ‘academic focus.’”
I freeze. “You mean because I was leashed?”
He tilts his head. “Among other things.”
“You son of a?—”
